


Shatter

by agentlemanneverlies



Category: Pocket Monsters: Black & White | Pokemon Black and White Versions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-21 01:37:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4809953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agentlemanneverlies/pseuds/agentlemanneverlies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“…Grimsley, aren’t you a charming man! I must know, how do you feel about the recent rumors that you influenced your parents’ deaths?”</p>
<p>His muscles tense at her words, and he tilts his gaze. “What…?” His voice is quiet, confused, and yet still threatening. “…My parents…”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shatter

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo... It's been awhile since I've posted anything here ahhh... I've been role playing as Grimsley for almost two years now on and off, and seven months consecutively in this group: http://wildencounters.tumblr.com/ 
> 
> Over all it's been a blast, but man... Today I reallyyyyy needed to write my headcanon for how he discovered he was an orphan because wow. Anyway, here you all go. Have this... Thing.

Unlike his colleagues, Grimsley doesn’t often attend interviews. He doesn’t see the point in wasting hours of his busy life answering menial questions with half-truths or equivocations. Especially when most of said questions revolve around his sex life. More often than not, the media has the right idea when they publish a particularly lewd headline, even if they do miss a majority of the facts that are so obviously right in front of them. Whatever. Regardless, Grimsley isn’t fond of interviews, yet…

Alder had  _‘recommended’_  he make the public appearance. And who was Grimsley to refuse the champion’s every whim and desire? The thought makes him want to vomit.

He sits casually against a higher end, decorative arm chair, one foot crossed whimsically over his knee. Classy as always, Grimsley keeps up his posture, although he does end up looking rather bored. The interviewer rambles onward, and occasionally, if something catches his interest, he’ll spare her more than a mere nod and a one sentence response. At this rate, however, he simply wants to be done with the whole ordeal.

There’s a live audience, and vaguely he’s aware that cameras are broadcasting the whole performance across the nation… He was filled in on this, he thinks, wasn’t he? Isn’t that why they’ve been avoiding the juicy questions they so badly want answers to? Because Alder is watching? The lady giggles and in response, he flashes her a fake smile, not paying attention to her next question. Instead, he simply nods.

…At least, until he hears a little more than necessary of her next inquiry…

“…Grimsley, aren’t you a charming man! I must know, how do you feel about the recent rumors that you influenced your parents’ deaths?”

His muscles tense at her words, and he tilts his gaze. “What…?” His voice is quiet, confused, and yet still threatening. “…My parents…”

“I find it odd myself, that the famed Mr. and Mrs. Crowden will  _everything_  to the one individual absent from their funeral~” Her personality is much to upbeat and vivacious for the words spewing out from between her lips.

Grimsley feels bile creeping up his throat, and does his best to force it down as hesitantly replies, “…Their funeral. My parents are dead.” His words are more meaningless confirmation to himself than anything more, yet they serve to announce his prior ignorance to the audience. There is a collective inhale from the people around him, followed by a sudden lack of sound. He can feel his limbs  _quivering_ , long suppressed feelings hiding just under his skin. It  _burns_ , and he wants to lash out, to release all of the pressure he’s built up. But, he’s on live television. He can’t allow himself to lose control. His eyes are full of malice as he stands, and he mutters, “please excuse me,” before he’s storming offstage.

His steps are fast paced and his muscles, _screaming_  for motion. As soon as he’s back in his dressing room, the door locked securely behind him, he slams a fist into the mirror. “Damnit,” he hisses. “God fucking damn it all! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck-!” With each vulgarity he lets loose, his fist reconnects with the shattered remains of reflective glass. His skin is torn and bloody where it meets the damn thing, but he doesn’t care, he just continues to punch at something that had once held his reflection.

_It does little to soothe him._

There’s so much  _anger_ , so much underlying  _tension_ , and he doesn’t know how to cope with it, long since used to just pushing it all away. But this…  _This_  is something he can’t avoid no matter how badly he wishes to. It’s been an entire decade since he’s spoken to his parents civilly, and now, they’re fucking  _dead_. He’d had hundreds of chances to make amends, to say all those unspoken words he once deemed pathetic… And yet he’s passed up every single moment in favor of his own fucking  _pride_.

_Later_ , he’d told himself over and over and fucking over again.  _He’d do it later._

But as he finally stops slamming his fist into the shards of glass and allows his eyes to slip open, his breath hitches. He shakes, pants, and quivers as the emotional response finally slams into him with all the weight of a jet.  _God…_  It’s so hard to breathe.  _Breathe_ , Grimsley, fucking _breathe_. He tries, but he only manages to release a single choked sob before he’s once more struggling to hold back the contents of his stomach.

He’d had his chances, all of them, but now it’s too fucking late.

Never again will he hear his mother’s gentle voice as he tells her how his day went. Never again will he feel the warmth of his father’s hand against his shoulder after doing something worthy of the name Crowden. Never again will he sit down for a family meal. Never again will he join his parents for the holidays. Never again will he-  _Oh god._

There’s  _tears_  on his cheeks now, he’s certain, and the realization makes him gag, his uninjured hand shooting to cover his mouth. He doesn’t cry, hasn’t in years, and can’t stand the childishness of it. This is not just some  _pathetic_  kid’s problem that will go away with a few spilled tears and some calm reassurances. Crying won’t do a god damn thing, and he wants to punch himself for allowing such an action to consume him. But… Mostly, he just wants to take back all of those horrible things he’d said to his mother-

-But he  _can’t._  He  _won’t_. He  _never will_. And it’s that thought that has him doubled over on the floor, each of his limbs shaking with the weight of simply being  _alive_. He just wants it to stop- He wants to forget. The memories are too much, too late, and he just wants to fade into nonexistence like the pathetic fucking piece of  _shit_  he knows himself to be.

When Grimsley stumbles into the Unova league that night, clearly intoxicated, for once, Alder doesn’t berate him. Instead, he simply thins his lips, nods solemnly, and guides the elite trainer back to his room.

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone wants to follow my Grimsley blog, it can be found here~ http://grimmace.tumblr.com/


End file.
